Twenty-Nine
I try and get out of the few days with the Desais. Not that I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to go alone. It is so far,
and without Jerome to make me feel secure, it’s a trip that is no longer appealing.
I text Preeti saying that things at work are blowing up, and I’m busier than I would like, and I didn’t think I was going
to be able to make it.
Seconds later, my phone rings.
“Bullshit,” says Preeti, after I tell her Jerome has gone and things are too complicated. “I need you to come and be my partner
in crime. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I don’t give no for an answer.
I have never been anywhere like Lamu Island. I thought I was sophisticated, knowledgeable, had an understanding of other cultures
through my education, the people I was lucky enough to mix with at Harvard, the experiences I have had, but nothing had prepared
me for the sights and sounds of Lamu.
I meet up with the Desais and together we take a dhow, an old wooden sailing boat, from the airport to a small fishing port, stone buildings lining the streets, men sitting in the shade of arches, quietly chatting.
There are no cars on the island, no motorized transport.
I am hit by a wave of heat, and peace, as soon as I step off the boat.
Our bags are transferred to a private dhow that takes us to Morindi, the island owned by the Desai family. We are greeted
by smiling staff members in traditional white cotton kurtas embroidered with a black D. My bags are piled onto the backs of donkeys, and we make our way behind them on foot, Pavit telling us about the history
of the island, how there was one house when he bought it, and they have added a number of houses for the family over the years.
From the beach we can see high thatched roofs silhouetted against the blue sky, and within minutes we are sitting on a terrace
covered with a woven bamboo mat, hot pink bougainvillea tumbling all around us, sipping a passionfruit cocktail brought to
us by Ashura, the butler.
I feel as if I’ve died and ended up in Paradise, I text Jerome that night, as I am dressing for dinner, the white mosquito nets fluttering in the breeze created by the wooden
ceiling fan. The guesthouse is simple, and exquisite. Whitewashed stucco, everything inside is white and stone, large sofas
and daybeds built out of stone with simple white canvas pillows, strewn with colorful kilim throws that match the simple rugs.
A huge wraparound terrace with teak lounging chairs and tumbling bougainvillea frames a view of palm trees on white sand beaches
and turquoise water.
I wish Jerome were here, I think, looking out over the water, before I realize that this moment is perfect, and nothing needs
to be different to make it better.
Dinner is unlike any Indian food I have ever tasted.
It is thali, explains Pavit, as my eyes widen at the multiple dishes served on a huge platter, piles of puran poli, a flat bread with a chickpea stuffing, in the middle of the platter.
There is shaak, spicy sweet vegetables, samosas, khichdi made of rice and lentils, pickles, and a spiced raan, a leg of mutton that sounds dubious but tastes delicious.
We sit cross-legged on mats around a large low table, eating with our fingers. I watch how Pavit’s wife, Madhur, picks up
a piece of bread with her right hand, using it to scoop the food, helping her small children who join us at the table, beautifully
behaved, giggling behind small hands when I tease them. Pavit entertains us throughout dinner, the consummate host, while
Madhur insists I try a little more of everything. I eat until I am so stuffed I can hardly move, after which we retire to
the living room where musicians have been brought in to entertain us with traditional Swahili music. Two men sit on the floor
drumming, while another sings, his voice sonorous and beautiful as it fills the room.
Pavit’s children run around playing, the grandparents also with us, smiling and beaming, sitting quietly on the side of the
room.
“Are you glad you came?” asks Preeti, collapsing on the sofa next to me. “Isn’t it heavenly here?”
“I think I’m in love. You may never be able to get me to leave!”
“This is the place that keeps me sane. Every time life gets to be too much, I escape out here to center myself.”
I laugh. “You sound so Californian!”
“We must have been spending too much time together!”
“What’s this?” Pavit comes to join us, elegant and commanding in his silk sherwani, the consummate host.
“My sister from another mister was telling me I sounded Californian.”
A huge belly laugh erupts from Pavit. “Sister from another mister! I like it. I am glad we have found you, Missy. I may have had my reservations in the beginning, but this will be a wonderful partnership.”
“And a wonderful friendship,” adds Madhur.
“More than friendship,” corrects Preeti. “Family.”
I feel aglow, in much the way I do when I have been drinking tequila, except the only thing I have had to drink tonight is
a salted lassi, and water. This is the family I would have wanted, I think, watching the grandparents gather up Pavit’s small
children as they pass, tickling them while they shriek with laughter. This room is filled with love. I see it in the way they
talk to each other, the way they look at each other, the way they talk to each other. There is love, and connection, and respect.
They have everything I craved when I was young, never feeling that I had quite enough, always wishing I had a family much
like this one.
At midnight, I excuse myself to go to bed, hugging everyone before Ashura escorts us to our house, lighting the paths with
a lantern. I have left my phone by the bedside and when I check it, Clara has left a message.
We have emailed every day, Clara updating me on what is happening at ipryy, although little seems to be happening. The deal
with Inferno was announced before I left, and things have been ticking along. There is nothing, she says, for me to worry
about. There has been no more fallout from the Journal piece, and the shares are inching back up. Everything is going according to plan, she says. Everything is under control.
“How are you?” she asks when I call her back. “Where are you? I know you’re no longer in Switzerland.”
“Jerome had to fly to New York. I’m with Pavit and Preeti and their family.
They own a private island off the coast of Kenya.
” I hesitate for a split second, feeling spoiled, privileged, wondering if she will continue to think me a lightweight, think me as less than serious, a dabbler, for taking a weekend off.
Would my father have taken a weekend off?
I cannot recall a single weekend of my childhood which didn’t contain work of some kind.
“That sounds dreamy!” says Clara, and I relax before wondering why she is phoning. “Is everything okay? Any issues?”
“No issues. The share prices, as you will have seen, are rising. The shareholders aren’t thrilled that they’re not back to
where they were, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
“I was planning on heading to India on Friday or Saturday, but it sounds like maybe I should probably fly home until we’re
in a better place with the board.”
I should be back running ipryy and drinking green tea with Lucy and Noah. Noah. An image of him shirtless crosses my mind.
I squeeze my legs together and push it aside.
“I really want you to see the factory in Mumbai,” Clara says. “It’s increasingly important given our expansion with Inferno.
We’ll need Jerome here to help figure out what to do about the shares until you get back. That’s alright, isn’t it, Missy?
You can handle India by yourself, can’t you?”
It’s a simple question that feels like a challenge. I don’t particularly want to handle India by myself, but if I decline,
it makes me look like a child, like someone who can’t handle a foreign trip without her boyfriend by her side.
There is also the fact that Nasreen is now living again in India, the country in which she was raised. I want to see my childhood
neighbor, the woman I thought of as a second mother.
I force a laugh as if Clara is being ridiculous. “Of course I can handle India by myself. I’ve got India, then the tech conference
in Italy, and I will be fine. Inferno will be there, and Preeti and I have lots to talk about.”
“Great! I’m so pleased the two of you are getting on so well.”
“We are.” I take a breath, then tell her about the foundation we are planning, expecting her to be thrilled, supportive. She is, after all, a woman, and this is a foundation all about women.
Instead, there is silence.
“Clara? Hello? Hello? Are you still there.”
“Yes. I’m still here. I think it’s . . . wonderful that you and Preeti are getting on so well and having such . . . lovely . . .
ideas. I’m a little concerned this is all a distraction to the main picture. You are the CEO now, and even though I know that
philanthropy excites you more than anything else, I don’t want you to get too caught up in something like this when there
are other areas that need your focus more.”
“I wouldn’t do anything that distracts from the main event.” My voice is cold. “And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, my father is
well again. He’s planning on coming home this week, and you know him, he won’t be able to stay away. My focus can be on philanthropy
after all.” I don’t bother telling her what my father said about wanting me at his side. She doesn’t need to know his every
thought.
For the first time since I have known her, it is awkward between us. We attempt a little more small talk, but when we say
goodbye, it feels distant, and a little off. I wonder if Clara is okay, if she is going through something. Once upon a time
I would have taken it personally, but now I know better; now I know that not everything is about me.